


If This Plane Goes Down

by slightly_ajar



Series: Paperwork, Letters and Lists [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Found Family, Team as Family, This is a tricky one to tag, no one actually dies though, thoughts of death and mortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightly_ajar/pseuds/slightly_ajar
Summary: He knew the science behind flight and that it was statistically extremely unlikely that a plane could be brought down by turbulence but that flight… That flight.  Russ had lived through military occupations less frightening.
Series: Paperwork, Letters and Lists [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060865
Comments: 13
Kudos: 11





	If This Plane Goes Down

Even the head of super-secret spy organisations have to take the bins out. Domestic chores don’t do themselves. Bond movies never show M replacing the toilet roll but it had to happen. (Of course Judi Dench would do it in an effortlessly cool and superbly acted way that would quite rightly earn her an Oscar nomination.) 

Russ knew that the thought of sorting his dry cleaning out was worse than actually doing it so with a motivating slap on his thighs he took himself into his bedroom to gather up his dirty clothes. After hearing how a high-status organisation’s only copy of a set of top secret plans had ended up going through a boil wash Russ was careful to always check his pockets before cleaning his clothes. He usually just found lint and, since joining the Phoenix, the occasional paperclip, but this time his fingers touched folded pieces of paper. Russ pulled the sheets out and stared. He’d forgotten all about that note. It must have been sitting in his inner pocket since the last time he’d worn that particular jacket - on his way home from Washington. 

Russ had spent untold hours on planes. At last count there were one hundred and ninety five countries in the world and he’d visited more out of that number than he hadn’t. He knew the science behind flight and that it was statistically extremely unlikely that a plane could be brought down by turbulence but that flight… That flight. Russ had lived through military occupations less frightening. The plane had bucked and shuddered and the seasoned travellers in business class had fastened their seatbelts, squared their jaws and pretended that they weren’t terrified. Closing his eyes and gripping his seat’s armrest hadn’t helped Russ contain his fear so to distract himself he’d pulled the papers marked ‘This page is intentionally blank’ from the documents in his bag and had started writing. The missive, part will, part confession, part love letter, had been tucked away when the flight finally landed. Russ had staggered from the plane and into the nearest place in the airport that would sell him a large shot of whiskey and hadn’t thought about the note since. 

The pages crinkled in Russ’ hand. He didn’t need them. He’d lived. But he found himself sitting on his bed and opening up the folded paper to remind himself of what he’d thought about when faced with the possibility that he might really, truly, actually die, and right then, not some day in the distant future. 

In blue pen and with a shaky hand the note said: 

“Well, this isn’t how I thought I’d go. Not that I’ve thought about it. I’ve put rather a lot of time, money and effort into avoiding any kind of dying but here we are. But then who does get to choose the manner of their passing? 

If you, dear reader, have this, (hello, how are you? What’s the weather like? Pop off and look outside for me would you? Are thick sheets of rain falling from a grey, thunderous sky? That would make a fitting backdrop by which to read the last confessions of a complicated man. Or when you looked out of the window did you see an ordinary day with blue skies, clouds, the odd bird and long white contrails streaking through the sky? (Let’s just enjoy the irony of _that_ for a moment...) It’s that isn’t it, reader? It was a perfectly pleasant day out there wasn’t it? Why should the fate of one man influence the weather? Why should my passing be marked by any kind of change in the heavens? I’m just a person, one of many, I’m not Zeus or that character that Halle Berry played in the X Men films) I am dead, I’ve kicked the bucket, shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. I am an ex-Taylor. 

I always take for granted that British people of a certain age will know at least some of the classic Monty Python references but I quoted something from the Four Yorkshireman sketch to a fellow countryman last week and he looked at me blankly. I was surprised. I usually like being surprised but sometimes it can be a disappointment, like when you say ‘Luxury!’ to someone and they don’t know what you’re talking about. Or when you’re killed in a plane crash on the way back from a boring meeting. 

So I’m gone. Resting in peace (and depending on what happens with this plane I could be resting in pieces). I was against it but what can you do? 

I have a will, a carefully thought out will that’s been signed and verified but the thought occurred to me as my plane dropped straight down for a very long four seconds that while what I’ve written is very business-like and proper it lacks the personal touch. When the wine in the hand of the man sitting beside you ends up decorating the ceiling you become very aware that the metal tube you’re in is held together by nuts, bolts and welding - and what’s a bunch of metal parts compared to the power of the Earth’s atmosphere and gravity? Not much. 

It makes you think about your life, being in a situation like this, the people in it and what you want to leave behind. 

To that end: 

\- I want the money in my largest bank account to go to Matty Webber for the purpose of maintaining the Phoenix foundation. To the person enforcing my wishes, (Wotcha!) you might have to look around a bit for that particular account. It’s not the first one you’ll find. Or the next one. You’ll have to dig about a bit, it’s the big one. The really, really big one. You’ll know it when you find it. (It’s BIG) 

\- There’s an unnamed bank account, it’s just identified with a full stop. The gains in it are ill gotten. I’m ashamed of them. Always have been. The money feels tainted so it’s been gathering dust in that account since I earned it. I’ve been waiting to find a cause to give it to that’s worthy enough to counterbalance how I came to possess it - I figured that while you can’t buy karmic restitution there’s no reason not to have a bloody good go. But now I’m thinking that there is no worthiest cause, all causes are worthy aren’t they? There’ll never be a right time or a righteous enough organisation to clean the slate I marked with that money. And how does one pick between children with cancer and deforestation and traumatised veterans and overworked donkeys and dental care for the homeless. They all need support. They all deserve support. The only thing you can do is pick a cause that speaks to you and help where you can. So divide the money in that account up and share it between a cancer charity in the name of James MacGyver, Doctors Without Borders for Emeila and a refugee organisation. I’ve aided enough conflicts, it only seems fair that I help people who’ve had their lives uprooted by conflict. 

\- Find an amateur dramatics group somewhere in the UK. Make it one of those troupes run by ordinary people for fun that does a panto each Christmas, stages a Shakespeare play in the spring and puts on a show showcasing their youth group in the autumn. I have (had?) a bank account named ‘Elizabeth’, take the money from it and give it to that Am Dram group. She would have like that. 

\- My houses: sell them as outlined in my will except for the one in Hawaii, leave that. I want it to be used by agents in need. Not as a safe house but as a house that’s safe. Safe for anyone who needs to spend time somewhere beautiful where they can listen to the ocean and feel sand beneath their feet. Make it a sanctuary, if you will. 

Regarding my funeral. Oh, dear reader, my funeral! 

Pomp! Circumstance! Mysterious women with faces hidden behind black veils weeping into handkerchiefs! Stories of derring-dos, wit and cunning! A choir of fifty school boys lifting their voices in song and an acoustic performance by Bruce Springsteen! 

I see no reason why Westminster Abbey couldn’t be booked for the occasion. I want my coffin to be carried in a carriage drawn by horses wearing feathered plumes and for black petals to fall down into the packed congregation – which will feature dignitaries, famous faces and I think there might reasonably be some members of the royal family in the pews – and it is still possible to be interred in the Abbey isn’t it? Steven Hawking is there. So, yeah, if I could have a spot next to someone interesting and a bit sexy, no one boring that everybody has forgotten please, that would be marvelous. 

No. 

No, I don’t actually want to spend eternity surrounded by staid old dead men and grey stone where tourist will walk over my resting place wearing sensible sandals and carrying a map they picked up outside the gift shop. 

Take whatever parts of me are left to a crematorium then sprinkle my ashes on the Yorkshire Dales. Find a pretty spot (that will be easy, the whole of the Dales are beautiful) maybe on a hill near some trees and let me go into the wind. 

You probably won’t be able to get Springsteen to play a crematorium so if you could just stick a CD of Born to Run on during the ceremony that would be splendid. 

Invite who you want to the ceremony and the wake. Whoever wants to come can. Even if it’s just to check that I actually am dead. If my friends want to raise a glass to me afterwards let them know I’m paying for an open bar. 

My friends, the people at the Phoenix and the few hardy souls scattered around the globe that I haven’t managed to drive away. 

Tell them I was thinking of them. Tell them I was brave. Tell them I played it cool and went with a quip on my tongue and a glint in my eye. Tell them I beckoned the flight attendant over to request a drink and fell to earth sipping a martini – it won’t be true but it sounds good. Tell them that if they’d told me to bugger off when I turned up with a crazy story about a weapon of mass destruction and a terrorist attack on US soil I don’t know what I would have done but it wouldn’t have been worth half as much as everything I've done since I met them. Tell them I was glad I met them. Tell them I’ll miss them. Tell them they mean more to me than they realise - they mean more to me than I realise. Tell them they helped me discover the best parts of myself. (Apart from my charm and my fabulous mane of hair – those came naturally) 

I don’t believe in fate. Seven and a half billion people knocking around on planet Earth and there’s some kind of grand plan for each of us governing whether we should turn left or not? Please. There’s no such thing as fate, there’s education, determination, money, connections, natural talent, hard work, bravado, stubbornness, moxie and pure dumb luck. That said, I lost brothers in arms when a plane that I was supposed to be in came down, maybe I didn’t so much as dodge a bullet as side step a boomerang and it’s come back round to clobber me in the back of the head. 

That’s a sobering thought. 

Perhaps I should order that drink. 

It’s nonsense isn’t it? Wealth. Power. Influence. Bespoke suits and Italian shoes? None of those things will keep this plane in the sky. When they comb through it’s wreckage the bits of bone belonging to the people riding in coach will look exactly the same as the pieces of cartilage from us dickheads in business class. We’ll all be just as dead as each other. 

I grow maudlin, dear reader, and weary. And perhaps the long metal tube holding me in the clouds is rocking a little less. 

More importantly, I’m running out of paper. 

To an end then. 

I’ll put my signature at the bottom of this to make it official. Hopefully it will never be needed, but if someone does happen to find these pages in the pocket of my singed, torn jacket please pass them on to the proper authorities. Thank you. 

I have to say, all in all, it’s been grand.” 

To be in a still, quiet room after reliving turbulent moments of mortal terror was disorientating. Russ felt like he was the one rocking on a flat and calm sea. His fear had been real, so had his remorse, the overwhelmingly present sense of his humanity and the serenity the love he’d felt had brought. He’d been humbled – mostly – when faced with the possibility of his death. Humble wasn’t something Russ could lay claim to that often. He’d lived though, and after staggering from the plane, and finishing his whiskey, Russ had caught cab home from the airport and that was it. He’d woken up the next day and moved forward. 

The note in his pocket hadn’t been needed. It would never been needed. He could put it in the recycling with the junk mail. The sentiments in the note however – they were needed. What Russ had thought and felt in the air had been genuine and had come to him with absolute clarity. Those things weren’t rubbish that needed to be balled up, melted down and reshaped into something unrecognisable. They were worth keeping. Worth remembering. Worth living. 

Russ folded the pages and, with a reverence usually reserved for explosive or precious objects, placed them into the drawer of his bedside dresser. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song [ If This Plane Goes Down by](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EblcARJBgww) Tim Minchin, which was the inspiration for the story 
> 
> “I’ve kicked the bucket, shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. I am an ex-Taylor” references Monty Python’s [ Dead Parrot Sketch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnciwwsvNcc) , I've also reference [The Four Yorkshiremen Sketch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26ZDB9h7BLY)
> 
> Stephen Hawking has been buried in Westminster Abbey, his ashes have been interred underneath the inscription: Here lies what was mortal of Stephen Hawking.


End file.
